Instinct. She was his objective; it remained how to reach her. The first moves of the pavane had to be subtle, neither too much nor too little but warranting attention. She had to come to him.
The next few minutes astonished Jason, which was to say he astonished himself. The term was 'role-playing*, he understood that, but what shocked him was the ease with which he slid into a character far from himself - as he knew himself. Where minutes before he had made appraisals, he now made inspections, pulling garments from their individual racks, holding the fabrics up to the light. He peered closely at stitchings, examined buttons and button holes, brushed his fingers across collars, fluffing them up, then letting them fall. He was a judge of fine clothes, a schooled buyer who knew what he wanted and rapidly disregarded that which did not suit his tastes. The only items he did not examine were the price tags; obviously they held no interest for him.
The fact that they did not prodded the interest of the imperious woman who kept glancing over in his direction. A sales clerk, her concave body floating upright on the carpet, approached him; he smiled courteously, but said he preferred to browse by himself. Less than thirty seconds later he was behind three mannequins, each dressed in the most expensive designs to be found in Les Classiques. He raised his eyebrows, his mouth set in silent approval as he squinted between the plastic figures at the woman beyond at the counter. She whispered to the clerk who had spoken to him; the former model shook her head, shrugging.
Bourne stood arms akimbo, billowing his cheeks, his breath escaping slowly as his eyes shifted from one mannequin to another; he was an uncertain man about to make up his mind. And a potential client in that situation, especially one who did not look at prices, needed assistance from the most knowledgeable person in the vicinity; he was irresistible. The regal woman touched her hair, and gracefully negotiated the aisles towards him. The pavane had come to its first conclusion; the dancers bowed, preparing for the gavotte.
'I see you've gravitated to our better items, Monsieur,' said
the woman in English, a presumption obviously based on the judgment of a practised eye.
'I trust I have,' replied Jason. 'You have an interesting collection here, but one does have to ferret, doesn't one?'
"The ever-present and inevitable scale of values, Monsieur. However, all our designs are exclusive.' 'D'accord, madame.' 'Ah, vous parlet francais?' 'Un peu. Passably.' 'You are American?'
'I'm rarely there,' said Bourne. 'You say these are made for you alone?'
'Oh, yes. Our designer is under exclusive contract; I'm sure you've heard of him. Rene Bergeron.'
Jason frowned. 'Yes. I have. Very respected, but he's never made a breakthrough, has he?'
'He will, Monsieur. It's inevitable; his reputation grows each season. A number of years ago he worked for St Laurent, then Givenchy. Some say he did far more than cut the patterns if you know what I mean.' 'It's not hard to follow.*
'And how those cats try to push him in the background! It's disgraceful! Because he adores women; he flatters them and does not make them into little boys, vous comprenez?' 'Facilement.'
'Hell emerge worldwide one day soon and they'll not be able to touch the hems of his creations. Think of these as the works of an emerging master, Monsieur.'
'You're very convincing. I'll take these three. I assume they're in the size twelve range.'
'Indeed, Monsieur, but they will be fitted, of course." 'I'm afraid not, but I'm sure there are decent dressmakers in Cap Ferrat.'
'Naturettement,' conceded the woman quickly. 'Also .. .* Bourne hesitated, frowning again. 'While I'm here, and to save time, select a few others for me along these lines. Different prints, different cuts, but related, if that makes sense.' 'Very good sense, Monsieur.'
Thanks, I appreciate it I've had a long flight from the Bahamas and I'm exhausted.' 'Would Monsieur care to sit down then?'
"Frankly Monsieur would care for a drink.'
'It can be arranged, of course ... As to the method of payment, Monsieur...?'
'Encaisse, I think,' said Jason, aware that the exchange of merchandise for hard currency would appeal to the overseer of Les Classiques. 'Cheques and accounts are like spoors in the forest, aren't they?'
'You are as wise as you are discriminating.' The rigid smile cracked the mask again, the eyes in no way related. 'About that drink, why not my office? It's quite private; you can relax and I shall bring you selections for your' approval.'
'Splendid.'
'As to the price range, Monsieur?'
'Les meilleurs, madame.'
'Naturellement.' A thin white hand was extended. 'I am Jacqueline Lavier, managing partner of Les Classiques.'
'Thank you.' Bourne took the hand without offering a name. One might follow in less public surroundings, his expression said, but not at the moment. For the moment, money was his introduction. 'Your office? Mine's several thousand miles from here.'
This way, Monsieur." The rigid smile appeared once more, breaking the facial mask like a sheet of progressively cracked ice. Madame Lavier gestured towards the staircase. The world of haute couture continued, its orbit uninterrupted by failure and death on the Quai de la Rapee.
That lack of interruption was as disturbing to Jason as it was bewildering. He was convinced the woman walking beside him was the carrier of lethal commands that had been aborted by gunfire an hour ago, the orders having been issued by a faceless man who demanded obedience or death. But there was not the slightest indication that a strand of her perfectly groomed hair had been disturbed by nervous fingers, no pallor on the chiselled mask that might be taken for fear. Yet there was no one higher at Les Classiques, no one else who would have a private number in a very private office. Part of an equation was missing ... but another had been disturbingly confirmed.
Himself. The chameleon. The charade had worked; he was in the enemy's camp convinced beyond doubt that he had not been recognized. The whole episode had a deja vu quality about it. He had done such things before, experienced the feelings of similar accomplishment before. He was a man running through an unfamiliar jungle, yet somehow instinctively knowing his way, sure of where the traps were and how to avoid them. The chameleon was an expert.
They reached the staircase and started up the steps. Below, on the right, the conservatively dressed, middle-aged operator was speaking quietly into the extended mouthpiece, nodding his grey-haired head almost wearily, as if assuring the party on the line that their world was as serene as it should be.
Bourne stopped on the seventh step, the pause involuntary. The back of the man's head, the outline of the cheekbone, the sight of the thinning grey hair - the way it fell slightly over the ear; he had seen that man before ! Somewhere. In the past, in the unremembered past, but remembered now in darkness ... and with flashes of light. Explosions, mists; buffeting winds followed by silences filled with tension. What was it? Where was it? Why did the pain come to his eyes again? The grey-haired man began to turn in his swivel chair; Jason looked away before they made contact.
'I see Monsieur is taken by our rather unique switchboard,' said Madame Lavier. 'It's a distinction we feel sets Les Classiques apart from the other shops on Saint-Honor.'